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The screams echoed in the hallway. They brought to the surface her vague memories of her life before Keramzin. The image of a man riddled with bullet holes swam in her mind’s eye. Alina shuddered, creeping along to the end of the hall. She swung the heavy door open and surveyed the scene. Blood’s metallic scent filled her nostrils. Lying crumpled in the center of the room was a man, his body oozing red from various cuts. He uttered one last scream, then a whimper, and then nothing. Alina took a step back, gasping in shock. Aleksander turned his head upon hearing her gasp. His eyes went wide. Alina ran from the room, the hallway, the apartment. From Aleksander. “Alina! Wait!” he called. Her footsteps echoed in the hall. “Come back!”
That had been five months ago. Alina shook her head, breaking herself from her reverie. Voices chatted in the background as the espresso machine whirled. A barista called out that a vanilla latte for someone called Dmitri was ready. Two metal ceiling fans turned, creating weak breezes that did little to alleviate the stuffy air of the coffee shop. Desperately trying not to spill her tea and not to hit anyone with her violin case, Alina Starkov navigated the crowd of customers in an attempt to find a table. She had enough time in between students to sit down and enjoy her tea. Why is this place so busy anyway? Set in a secluded area of Cofton, this cafe had barely enough patrons to keep it afloat. There was never a crowd during Alina's daily mid-afternoon visit. She had chosen it for that very reason.
Alina breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted a table in the far corner of the shop. Mercifully, the small table still had its chairs when Alina made her way there. She set down her tea, angled the violin case against the table, and sat down. For the first time since she arrived in Cofton months ago, Alina almost relaxed. That, of course, was when the stranger decided to appear.
Alina stiffened, about to take a sip of her tea, as the stranger pulled out the table's other chair without being invited. He was speaking loudly into his phone while he causally set down his coffee-cup. "Yeah, yeah, Zoya, she's here. No, I wasn't followed-"
And there went my break. Irritated at the man's obviousness (For saints' sake, he was wearing dark-tinted sunglasses indoors), Alina set her cup down as well. She cleared her throat, narrowing her eyes. Glaring at the man, she asked, "Who wears sunglasses indoors?"
The man gave a slight nod in her direction. "Zoya, I'll call you back," he hung up the call and stashed the phone in his blazer. He took off his sunglasses, revealing hazel eyes, and flashed her what he probably thought to be a charming smile. "Special agents, that's who," he said brightly.
Alina drummed her fingertips against the table's wooden surface. "And I suppose you're a special agent?" she ventured.
"Agent Sturmhond, Ravkan Investigative Agency, at your service." He made a tiny salute. Forcing herself to keep her breath even, she thought, This idiot is going to get himself killed. "You are a far way from Ravka, Agent Sturmhond. I can't imagine what business the RIA has in Novyi Zem," Alina said, unimpressed. Under her breath, she murmured, "You are aware that I have a shadow, yes?"
The agent continued to grin. "Just Sturmhond, please. Big, hulking fellow named Ivan, right? He's been temporarily detained. Don't worry, Miss Starkov. We've taken care of the cameras and swept for listening devices. This place is clean. We may speak freely."
Alina's fists clenched under the table at the mention of her name. "Can we now?" she muttered. "Whatever it is you want, Sturmhond, I can't help you." She pushed her chair out from the table and stood. She was about to leave when the agent grabbed her forearm.
"Miss Starkov, please wait. I think you'd be very interested in what I have to say," he pleaded. "It concerns Aleksander Morozova."
Alina pulled her arm free. She sat back down in her chair. Propping her elbows onto the table, Alina inquired, "I suppose you think that I know this Aleksander Morozova?"
Face grave, the agent answered, "Normally I would love to play these games, Miss Starkov, but we're on a time limit. Let's cut to the chase. You and I both know of Morozova, of your relationship to him. You two were remarkably close."
"If you're interested in this Morozova, then I don't know why you're talking to me," Alina asked, refusing to confirm or deny. Sturmhond arched an eyebrow. "Simple. The RIA wants you to be an informant. With your help, we can bring Morozova to justice."
Alina took a sip of her tea. I'm going to regret this. "Morozova ruled the Ravkan underworld for years. When he does emerge from the shadows, he pretends to be nothing more than an amateur pianist living off his inheritance. Few people know from where the money actually comes." I didn't, until that night. She had been taken in like the rest. Alina made a face at her tea. It had been brewed for too long. "Those who do have turned a blind eye. I know for a fact that this includes the RIA."
Sturmhond had the grace to look sheepish. "The RIA has changed its opinion on Morozova's activities. I'm not authorized to tell you the whole story, unfortunately. The gist of the matter is that, in the five months since you've left Ravka, Morozova has changed his behavior patterns. Like you said, Morozova has preferred the dark for years. Now, though, he's stepped into the light. Gained a lot of attention as a philanthropist too. Morozova has started donating to causes that provide relief for refugees and war orphans. He has been personally visiting those soldiers on active duty as well, bringing them new boots and letters from their families." Sturmhond took a gulp of his coffee. "What's more, Morozova was spotted in the company of the Fjerdan envoy when they visited Os Alta last month. You can understand that the RIA finds it hard to reconcile the intelligence we have on Morozova with the do-gooder image Morozova is presenting." Sturmhond paused to sip so more of his coffee.
What are you up to, Aleksander? Alina thought.
Sturmhond continued in a clipped tone, "To general distress, however, the RIA has had little success in figuring out his plans. We want you to return to Os Alta, to renew your relationship with Morozova. Your proximity to him makes you an ideal candidate find out what he's planning. Please understand, we are asking you as a last resort. You're an untrained civilian. We wouldn't have come to you if we had any other options."
Her vision began to swim. She felt the ghost of long fingers on her neck, her hair, her chin. Do they understand what they are asking? Alina had run from Ravka for a reason. She had been so blind, until that night. A fist pounding on the door. Feet scraping against floorboards. Blood streaming on tiles. "Tell me, Sturmhond," Alina said, drawing out the syllables. "I am safe here in Cofton. I am free. I like it here. Why should I leave? Why should I do as you say and return to Os Alta? I have all the subtlety of a sledgehammer."
"Besides the satisfaction of helping your country?" Sturmhond leaned forward, his hazel eyes meeting hers. "You're our best chance at finding out his plans. He wouldn't suspect you. The RIA has already sent in two agents. Both were discovered within two weeks, and Morozova gave them no mercy." Sturmhond gripped his coffee cup. "Pardon my bluntness, but are you truly happy in Novyi Zem? I wonder if you as safe as you think. Five months ago you were a guest soloist for the Royal Ravkan Symphony. Now you teach violin to uninterested, unmotivated children. Morozova sent someone to tail you, as you said yourself. You are hundreds of miles away, but he still keeps tabs on you. How long will it be before he comes himself?" He glanced at his watch. "I've met men like Morozova before. They don't let go. His influence on your life won't end until Morozova is in solitary and his business dismantled. Which, if we're successful, is exactly what will happen."
Sturmhond pushed his chair back, the wooden legs scraping against tile. Holding his coffee, he said, "You don't have to decide right now. When you do, call this number. It's a secure line, direct to my office. Untraceable. I hope to hear from you soon." The agent handed her a slip of paper, and, flashing her another grin, disappeared in the crowd of patrons. Alina heard a faint tinkling of the shop's bell as the door closed over the chatter.
Alina's fingers clenched around the paper. Tempted to throw it away, she shoved it inside her coat pocket instead. How long will it be before he comes himself? The bell at the shop's entrance tinkled again. Probably Ivan. She forced herself to not turn around, to stare down at her now-cold tea. A voice with a heavy Ravkan accent ordered a black coffee, confirming her suspicion. I can't deal with this today. Before Sturmhond appeared, Alina had been successfully ignoring Ivan's presence for most of the day. She had almost managed to convince herself. Alina gulped down the last of her tea, picked up her music bag and instrument case, and left the coffee shop. She had a lesson to teach.
Gray light filtered through the windows of Alina's apartment building, barely illuminating the creaky floorboards. Shouting from the family in Apartment 503 flowed past the thin walls. They're at it again. Like her, like almost everyone in this building, they had fled from Ravka and her wars. She had met briefly met the family when they arrived two weeks ago. The mother had told Alina about the bombing of their small town near the Fjerdan border in excruciating detail. She mentally shivered at the woman's description of thick, black smoke and bones crunching.
Alina continued plodding through the narrow hallway toward her apartment. 515. Her neighbor, a thin, grouchy old woman, stood in the doorframe of her own apartment. She was chewing on jurda, a Zemeni habit the woman had picked up two months ago. She spit the flower's juice into a nearby spittoon and tilted her head toward Alina's instrument case. She said crankily, "You planning on playing that thing? Noise woke me from my nap last time."
"No, gaspazhah. You can take your nap in peace," Alina promised.
The old woman grunted her approval and shut her door. Alina sighed. Every time she attempted to practice, someone or the other complained about the noise. It's not like I play badly. I'm a professional, for saints' sake. She shook her head and unlocked the door to her apartment. Alina walked in, setting down the case on the kitchen table. It swayed disturbingly from the instrument's weight. She groaned. It's a violin, not a tuba. She was grateful for the sanctuary the apartment provided, but why did all the furniture have to be crap? Alina pressed her fingers into her temples, plopping onto the moth-eaten couch. "Ugh," she moaned. The day had been trying. She had arrived at the homes of the day's last student, only for his mother to inform her that the boy in question was sick and therefore there was to be no music lesson. They couldn't have called ahead and saved me the bus fare?
And then there had been Sturmhond. Alina swung her feet onto the other end of the couch to lay down and closed her eyes. He does not know what he is asking. The agent had not been there that night. He didn't hear the banging, the ungodly screams. He didn't know how the blood dripped onto the black and white tiles. He didn't feel her fear when she jumped on the next plane leaving Os Alta, only pausing long enough to resign from the Symphony and pack a get-away bag. No one could spy on Aleksander Morozova, least of all her.
Still, something about Sturmhond's information prodded at Alina. Sturmhond was right. The man that Alina knew was quiet, reserved. He always did his best to keep in the shadows. Now, according to Sturmhond, Aleksander had done a complete reversal and gained quite a bit of attention as a philanthropist. Donating to orphans and visiting soldiers. Aleksander had made his disinterest for Ravka's wars clear in the past. Nothing added up. But, hell, what do I know? I thought Aleksander's money came from inheritance, not blood. Maybe it was nothing, and the RIA's suspicions were for naught. Maybe Aleksander had genuinely developed a taste for philanthropy in her absence. But then she heard the screams again. The blood. How long until he comes himself? Sighing, Alina knew her answer to Sturmhond's query.
Alina pushed herself back into a sitting position. We're all going to die, she thought as she drew her cell phone and a crumpled slip of paper from her coat pocket. She dialed the number and pressed the call button. “I’ll do it.”